


The paradox of now or never

by Astardanced77



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-20
Updated: 2016-03-20
Packaged: 2018-05-27 21:18:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6300763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Astardanced77/pseuds/Astardanced77
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Every moment is the paradox of now or never.”<br/>― Simon Van Booy, Love Begins in Winter: Five Stories </p><p>Thorin did not consider himself to be reckless. Too much had rested on his shoulders for too long for him to make imprudent or impetuous decisions. The quest for Erebor, for all its insurmountable odds, had been meticulously planned, though those plans had come to naught disturbingly quickly at the machinations of the wizard. Yet in this moment he felt a mad impulse to throw caution to the four winds. When else would he find such an opportunity as this? They were alone for the first time in months. Soon enough someone would come looking for him—they could be on their way now—and this moment would be lost.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The paradox of now or never

**Author's Note:**

> A conversation between Thorin and Bilbo that popped into my head and wouldn't leave again until I wrote it down. It appears that, most unusually, the angst was strong with me today! 
> 
> This was written in an afternoon and is unbetaed, so please let me know if there are any errors.

“Here you are.” Thorin stepped out onto the balcony where Bilbo was staring out into the distance. Though spring was creeping closer, there was still a distinct chill in the air. Bilbo’s outfit, though very undeniably fetching, was far more suited, in Thorin’s opinion, to the gentle rolling breezes of the Shire than the winds of Erebor; in short, it looked entirely inadequate to the conditions. Thorin buried his hands in his cloak and squashed the urge to gather Bilbo under its warm folds. He had been given no indication that such a gesture would be welcomed, nor would he presume, much as he wished.

He took a step forwards and thought he saw Bilbo’s figure, still facing out to the view, stiffen slightly. He stopped. “I wondered where you had disappeared to,” he said, awkwardly into the continued silence. “Forgive me if I impose. I only wished to thank you for your efforts. The feast was exquisite and Bombur tells me that you spent many hours in the kitchens contributing.” He took a breath, but Bilbo did not reply. “It seems there is no end to your talents. Or your generosity.”

It seemed that Bilbo stiffened further and dropped his head slightly, as if in denial. Thorin frowned and cursed internally. When had speaking to the hobbit become so difficult?

In the aftermath of the battle, as he had lain unsure whether he would live or die, he had called Bilbo to him to apologise and beg forgiveness. It had seemed to him then that it was granted, with the same charity of spirit that had sent Bilbo on this mad quest in the first place. Indeed, Bilbo had made a point of visiting him often in his sickroom. Once Thorin was ambulatory, Bilbo had insisted on being tasked to help in the restoration efforts. It was, in part, thanks to Bilbo that Erebor had sufficient supplies to feed the dwarves that continued to arrived on a daily basis. He had trawled tirelessly through those records that survived of transactions with the elves and the men of Dale to find what evidence he could of past agreements. The rest had come from his own vast knowledge of catering for the many and, to Thorin, bewildering array of celebrations that made up the Hobbit calendar. Thus armed, Thorin had been able to ensure a more than adequate supply of food for Erebor’s inhabitants.

But over the months as they had both become more busy, their interactions had become more limited. Thorin did not know when the casual evening visits for tea had ceased, only that he missed them and Bilbo. Recently it had seemed that he only had to enter a room to find Bilbo departing—

Bilbo turned his head, gracing Thorin with a view of his profile, though not meeting his eyes. “There is no need for thanks, Thorin. I was happy to do so. It is a momentous occasion, after all.” He took a deep breath and turned around. To Thorin it looked as if he was bracing himself before looking up. “Congratulations, Your Majesty,” he said, still not quite meeting Thorin’s eyes.

Thorin smiled. “I believe that is the first time I have heard you refer to me that way.”

Bilbo shrugged. “Well, it’s finally official now. At least, I believed that’s the ceremony I just sat through. Bofur was very helpfully translating into my ear for the most part, but he became a little emotional at the crucial moment.”

Thorin chuckled and Bilbo’s somewhat tense face softened. He looked back out over Dale. “I meant it, Thorin. The congratulations, I mean. What you have achieved here in such a short time is remarkable. You have reclaimed a home for your people against impossible odds. You should be proud.”

Warmth sufficing his chest, Thorin stepped forward to join Bilbo at the railing. “There is still much to be done,” he admitted. “We have housing for those that are here, but more will come and will require accommodation. The mines of Ered Luin were almost run dry before we arrived. Our people lived on the skill of their craft not the resources of the ground and few yet living have any experience in the deep mines we have in Erebor. My cousin Dain has promised advisors but we must learn for ourselves and quickly.” He chuckled. “I fear I will have the most to learn. My craft is the anvil not the pick.”

“Must you learn at all?” asked Bilbo. “Surely you will have advisors for that.”

“A king must understand what he is being told. It will do me good to get some exercise. I am too often cooped up at a desk or in the throne room. Soon I will no longer fit the bounds of my own throne!”

He expected Bilbo to laugh and tease at the joke, but there was only silence at his side. Glancing down, he could see the Hobbit had averted his gaze further, now looking out over Mirkwood. In the moonlight, his curls shone silver, ruffling gently in the breeze, giving him an otherworldly air at odds with his usual practicality. Thorin’s traitorous heart gave a heavy thump. How much longer could this go on, this silent longing that seemed to permeate his entire body? Every part of him ached for Bilbo in strange and heretofore unknown ways. He felt both serene and strangely enlivened, as if lit up by Bilbo’s mere presence.

Thorin did not consider himself to be reckless. Too much had rested on his shoulders for too long for him to make imprudent or impetuous decisions. The quest for Erebor, for all its insurmountable odds, had been meticulously planned, though those plans had come to naught disturbingly quickly at the machinations of the wizard. Yet in this moment he felt a mad impulse to throw caution to the four winds. When else would he find such an opportunity as this? They were alone for the first time in months. Soon enough someone would come looking for him—they could be on their way now—and this moment would be lost.

“Bilbo—” he began, screwing up his courage and raising a hand to place it gently on Bilbo’s shoulder.

“I spoke to Gandalf earlier,” interrupted Bilbo, turning yet further away.

“Oh?” said Thorin, his hand still hovering in mid-air.

“Yes,” said Bilbo. He took a breath and went on. “He mentioned that his next destination is Rivendell to consult with Lord Elrond. He offered to escort me back to the Shire if I wished.”

Thorin felt as though he had been doused in cold water. His hand dropped, nerveless, to his side. “Oh,” he said again, in a voice he did not recognise as his own. “What did you say?”

“I said yes.”

Thorin’s lungs felt paralysed as he attempted to suck in a breath.

“I see,” he attempted. “I must confess to some...” He stopped. “That is, Balin had given me to understand that you intended...” He stopped, then tried again. “It is just that... I had...We had hoped...that you might consider...” He stopped again, unable to bring himself to say the most important word. _Stay_.

He took a steadying breath. It was only partially successful. “But I see that is not the case. I am the last person who would wish to stand between you and your home and family.”

 Bilbo let out strangled, painful sound. Thorin’s hands flew out instinctively, but dropped just as quickly. He had not earned the right to touch, much as he had hoped he might. He turned away.

“When do you—“ he choked, incapable of saying the word. He cleared his throat and tried again. “When does the wizard depart?”

 “Two weeks,” said Bilbo.

The words hit Thorin as if a physical blow. So soon. The muscles in his face felt stiff as he replied. “The nights will still be cold and bitter. Could I not convince you to stay until the weather warms? I would be happy to provide a suitable escort for you.”

“I can’t.” The whisper was startling in its anguish.

Through the numbness, a dreadful suspicion was growing in Thorin’s heart. Had he been wrong all these months? He coughed, trying to dislodge the lump that had appeared, without success.

He turned to face Bilbo’s back and gathered his courage again. He must know and in knowing, make what amends he could.

“Bilbo,” he said, as gently as he could. “Will you not look at me?”

“I can’t!” This time the words were wrung from him and Bilbo shuddered under the force of them. “I can’t, Thorin.”

“Why?” Thorin forced the word through stiff lips.

“Because,” Bilbo cried, “every time I look at you, I see—“ He broke off but he had said enough.

Thorin felt as though he must crumple under the sheer weight of his guilt. This, then, was the truth. He was not forgiven as he had hoped; could never be, _should_ never be. In his greed, in his sickness and his weakness, he had caused Bilbo this pain. He had won the right to nothing but the anguish coursing through him now. To see Bilbo suffer, to know himself the catalyst for Bilbo’s unhappiness; perhaps there could be no greater punishment for his failures. He would take it all back if he could. He would give anything, even his life, to spare Bilbo. But nothing—

He sucked in a harsh breath. This was pointless and was of no use to Bilbo. He would leave Bilbo to his peace. Tomorrow he would begin the task of learning to live his life without—

“You need say no more,” he said as evenly as he could. “I quite understand. My actions that day were unforgivable, though I have repented of them every day since. I will leave you to your solitude. I imagine you have much to do before you leave, so I will not inflict my presence on you further. Only know that—”His voice cracked and he turned away blindly, almost failing to feel the tug of a small hand on his sleeve.

“Thorin, wait! Wait!”

 Thorin stopped and stood mutely as the hobbit came around in front of him, peering into his face and finally meeting his eyes. “What is it you think I see when I look at you?”

It seemed unaccountably cruel of Bilbo to force him to say it, but Thorin answered nonetheless. He deserved no less. “You see my face as I held you over the abyss in my madness. Bilbo, I know it means little, but I offer my apologies again. If this is the reason you do not stay..If you wish to stay with the Company but fear—” He stopped, unable to bring himself to say the words.

“I don’t fear you, you stupid dwarf!” Bilbo’s face was incandescent with rage as he shoved Thorin’s chest. He turned on his heel and paced the length of the balcony with crisp strides, muttering imprecations to himself.

“You don’t?” asked Thorin hesitantly.

“Of course I don’t,” shot back Bilbo. “I never feared you, you absolute idiot. I feared _for_ you. Honestly!” He threw his hands up in the air and continued to pace energetically.  

“Then, if you do not see...that, what is it you see?” What could he possibly see that could be worse than that sickening moment?

“I see YOU, you complete imbecile!” shouted Bilbo. “I see you lying on the ice, your blood on my hands as you—” He stopped abruptly and turned his back as Thorin stared at him.

“Bilbo,” Thorin whispered into the silence, unsure what else to say.

“I see you slipping away from me, Thorin. I see you just letting it happen because you thought you deserved it. And now I see it happening again.”

“Again,” echoed Thorin, confused. “Bilbo, I am not sick. Indeed, I am well, I assure you.”

“You are not well,” retorted Bilbo, spinning around. “You work too hard, you don’t eat enough, you don’t sleep at night. Don’t try and tell me you do; your chambers share a wall with mine and I can hear you.”

Thorin flushed. He had not thought any knew about the nightmares. Unrestful sleep was scarcely new to him, but lately the nightmares had come to feature Bilbo’s face more often. But Bilbo should not worry so for him, he thought, even as some unfamiliar feeling began to bubble deep in his gut.

“Bilbo—“ he tried.

“Don’t!” said Bilbo, stabbing an accusing finger at him. “Don’t try and tell me you are fine. Who do you think Bombur asks for advice when your meals are returned half eaten? Who do you think Dori shakes his head to when he has to order clothes of a smaller size for you? Who do you think Balin confides in when he has found you asleep on your paperwork again? I know more than you think, Thorin. I know _you_.”

He glanced away and took a breath. “Sometimes I think that it’s my fault.” He continued on over the top of Thorin’s strangled sound. “That all you wanted was to die a hero’s death, to die for this place and for your people. I stopped you from dying on the battlefield, so you’ll work yourself to death instead.” He looked at Thorin, meeting his eyes squarely. “Well, you can do that if you want, but I won’t stay here and see it happen,” Bilbo said, his tone bleak. “I watched you die once, Thorin, I won’t watch you do it again. I can’t.”

That unfamiliar feeling bubbled higher as Thorin stared back. He felt weighed down and light, calm though his heart pounded fast as if he had been running. His skin felt too tight and his lungs too large.

“You care,” he breathed, as though scared to say it too loudly and frighten Bilbo away. “You care about me.”

Bilbo heard him anyway and snorted. “Of course I care, you blithering idiot. I love you. I’ve loved you for months. You just never noticed.”

“You love me.” The words jumbled together in his head as he fought to make sense of them. The bubbling feeling overflowed, and finally Thorin identified it. _Hope_. He laughed suddenly, blithely. “You love me.”

“Yes, I love you,” said Bilbo, smiling a little in sympathy.

Thorin surged forward abruptly until he was standing directly in front of Bilbo. He raised shaking hands to cradle Bilbo’s cheeks and lowered his forehead gently to meet Bilbo’s. “You love me,” he whispered reverently. Bilbo answered with a strange sound between sob and a laugh. Ever so slowly, giving Bilbo every opportunity to lean away if he chose, Thorin trailed his nose delicately down Bilbo’s until their lips met.

Thorin’s experience with kissing was limited. There had been a visiting princess when he was young— an awkward and slightly messy affair, which left him with a crick in his neck—and a number of less sanctioned liaisons with shield mates behind the training halls. After the fall of Erebor and the hell that was Azanulbizar, he had had little time and less desire for dalliance. The advent of first Fili, then Kili, into his life had added the final nail to the coffin as he devoted what spare time he had to the family he had left. In fact, it had been well over a century since he had last kissed another being in passion.

Thorin was gratified to find that, like swinging an axe, some skill remained after such a long period. Or perhaps it was just that this was Bilbo that made the kiss perfect. His lips were supple, moving gently against Thorin’s and causing tiny shivers to run down Thorin’s back. The skin under Thorin’s hands was warm and soft, such a delicate coating to the diamond-hard core that Thorin knew lurked underneath. Thorin let his hands slide slowly further upwards into Bilbo’s hair as he tenderly kissed those pliable lips again and again. His hands brushed the tops of Bilbo’s ears as he reached wild curls; Bilbo shivered, his hand shot out to clutch at Thorin’s shirt, and all restraint was abruptly lost.

Thorin dragged a sharp breath in through his nose and _catapulted_ himself in to the kiss. His mind, thoroughly overwhelmed, disconnected from rational thought so all he could do was feel. He drowned in the sensations—the slick muscle of Bilbo’s tongue sneaking into his mouth, the heat radiating from Bilbo’s body under his hands, the shaking in his own body and the hammering of his heart. Bilbo jerked forward and up and it took Thorin a few moments to realise that his arms had lifted the hobbit of their own accord. Bilbo did not appear to object, only pressing his body closure as though he could merge under Thorin’s skin through sheer willpower. He broke the kiss to suck at Thorin’s neck over his pulse point. Thorin’s head spun and he staggered toward the bench to collapse into it.

The shudder of Thorin sitting seemed to rouse Bilbo. He raised a flushed face and tried to remove himself from where he was now perched straddling Thorin’s lap. “So sorry,” he babbled. “I’m too heavy. I’ll just...”

Thorin tightened his hold on Bilbo’s hips. “No!” he panted. “Stay. I just need a minute.” Bilbo nodded and wriggled to settle himself into a more comfortable position. As he did so, something hard brushed against Thorin’s groin. A pulse of pure lust travelled up Thorin’s spine and burst behind his eyeballs.

“Nnngghhh,” he said and thrust forward involuntarily. Bilbo shuddered and huffed a breath.

“On second thoughts,” Thorin amended breathily. “Perhaps it would be safer.” He let go his grasp and Bilbo scrambled off his lap to sit next to him. Bilbo shivered convulsively, so Thorin, remembering his earlier desire, urged him to stand so he could wrap his warm cloak around his hobbit. Bilbo promptly snuggled under the cloak and against Thorin’s side, re-scrambling Thorin’s none-too-coherent thoughts in the process.

They sat silently for a few moments, each content to remain wrapped around each other in the quiet, chill air. Slowly Thorin’s thoughts coalesced back towards sense and the arm around Bilbo tensed. Bilbo, obviously feeling the muscles grow taut, looked up questioningly.

“Will you stay?” Thorin asked hesitatingly. “You should know...if you haven’t already deduced, that is... that I love you also.”

Bilbo snorted inelegantly. “Yes, I had gathered that.”

 “So...will you stay? Here? With me?” Thorin took a breath. “This is not your home, I know, but I would like a chance to make it so. I think we could be happy. Here. Together. That is, I know I would be and I would try to make you happy too.”

Bilbo looked at him inscrutably. “Will you reduce your workload? Rest more and come to meals? Will you listen when I tell you to slow down and let others take some burden? Look after your own health?”

“I will,” promised Thorin, fervently. “I swear it.”

Bilbo laughed. “No, you won’t!” he said. “At the first opportunity, you’ll be working all hours and cursing me when I come to tell you to take breaks! I know you too well, my love.”

“But you’ll stay anyway?” Thorin asked hopefully.

“Yes.”

Despite his best intentions, Thorin caught Bilbo up in his arms again. “ _Amralime_ ,” he said reverentially.

Bilbo smiled. “My silly dwarf,” he said affectionately, running a caressing knuckle down Thorin’s cheek.

A king could only hide for so long, Thorin knew. He should return to the feast, preferably with Bilbo planted firmly at his side. Balin was probably already looking for him. But, for just this moment, this one perfect moment, he would stay right here in his hobbit’s arms. Right where he belonged.


End file.
